The Gypsy's Daughter
by miss.hawkins
Summary: When Peter Pevensie is summoned back to Narnia, the last thing he expects to find is his beloved country in ruin. Cair Paravel has fallen. The Narnians have fled into the woods. And the only ray of hope comes in the form of a small Rebellion, led by a woman with a vendetta of her own. Now Peter must put aside his Magnificent pride and fight to save that which he loves most. AU.


**Chapter 1**

_It's so quiet_.

She internally cringed as grass crunched under her boots, stiff with frost. The noise was altogether too loud for the otherwise still air; it almost smacked of disrespect. Disrespect to those crumpled at her feet. Yet, she did not feel compelled to stop. Snapping her spine straight, she marched on, surveying the carnage.

It was difficult to make out. Early morning fog had rolled in, covering the land in a thick cloud of white that rose to her chest. Those around her appeared as nothing more than dark shapes, their features impossible to define. Every one of them was bent over a body. Silent. They were checking for signs of life.

She knew their efforts were in vain.

"We found five near the water's edge," said a voice off to her left.

Looking back, she watched as a large, grey Wolf loped up beside her, its shaggy coat striped with blood. A shallow cut carved into its muzzle and it walked with its front right paw curled up, limping slightly. Eyes glowing, it met her gaze before speaking again.

"They were all gone before we got there."

Her mouth ran dry. Five more dead. Five more that would never see their families again. Five more that would never see peace in Narnia. Casualties were always a consequence of war, but this was too much. She was racking up quite the body count. And for what? She was making no better progress than those attempting to resuscitate their fallen comrades.

"How many here?" the Wolf asked when it was clear the woman had nothing to say. It kept pace with her despite its injuries.

"The scouts are still counting. Last I checked in with them, we were sitting at nineteen," she answered, skirting around a corpse. Being this close to the carcass caused her eyes to water; the smell was nauseating. She could only imagine how disgusting it would be once the sun breached the horizon and the heat hit them. "We won't know the final number until this fog lifts."

The Wolf nodded its understanding.

They walked the rest of the way in silence. With each step, the woman retreated farther inside herself. She rarely received moments alone to hear herself think. There were simply too many problems to correct, too many people to care for, too many soldiers to train, too many supplies to keep track of, too many lives dependent on her. Decisions needed to be made, and made quickly. Reflection wasted valuable time. Only instances such as these, when others were so wrapped up in their own sorrow they forgot to seek her out, afforded her a chance at clarity. Though wrong, she couldn't help but be comforted by the quiet. Aslan knew she needed it.

But the hush could not last forever. They were nearing another body, this one alone, forgotten. The woman swept to the side, giving it a wide berth. It appeared as lifeless as the rest; the person lay face down, their hair a tangled mess atop their head. One arm bent crooked, reaching in the direction the woman and Wolf walked. She stared at it for a moment, then looked away.

A moan.

She froze, as did the Wolf next to her. Without so much as a sideways glance between the two of them, they turned on their heels and rushed to the person. As they did so, the woman pulled out the sword on her waist. She did not intend to hurt them, but if this person was an enemy, she needed to be able to defend herself.

"Hello?" she said cautiously as the pair of them crept around the body. The Wolf stayed at her side, fur on end, balancing on the front pads of its paws, ready to attack. Easing herself down near the crooked arm, sword at the ready, she nudged the person's shoulder with her foot.

Another moan.

Up close, she was able to distinguish that the person was a man. He was broad, with a thick neck and wide torso. Large muscles bulged against the armour he wore, painted in blood. When she nudged him again, this time on the ear, his head rotated enough that she could inspect his face. There, dark lashes stuck to his cheeks, and a strong nose pointed at her. His lips were parted and she could see the faint movement on them that accompanied his breath as he fought for whatever life he had left.

She could also see that this man did not belong to her.

"He lives," the Wolf growled through its bared teeth. Body rippling, it sniffed the air and then said, "But not for long. He hovers on death."

"How long?"

"Not more than a few minutes."

As if to prove this, the man suddenly let out a pained cry, his eyes scrunching up. He wriggled onto his side, his good arm coiling around his mid-section, where the pool of blood was the most concentrated. The front of his breastplate bent in, crushing his chest. The woman shifted with him, keeping her sword trained on him. Just in case.

"You're sure?" she asked over the man's ragged breathing.

The Wolf nodded.

She sighed. Truthfully, she felt very little remorse for this man's death. He fought against her, this country, and her people's rightful claim to it. No doubt he'd killed one of her twenty-four friends that would never again stir. Still, she did not like the thoughts that came with his death. He looked fairly young. He probably had a wife back home. Maybe even a child—a child that would never know its father.

That thought did the trick. Swallowing hard, she said, "Very well," and lowered her sword. Her knees buckled into the grass with a soft crackle; leaning forward, she placed her left hand against the man's face. The touch jarred him; his eyes shot open and his breathing hitched. Panic clouded his irises as he recognized her.

"Calm yourself," she commanded him.

He didn't listen. Grasping for an invisible weapon, he brought his unbroken arm up to take a swing at her, but only managed a few inches before the pain stopped his strike cold. A yelp more terrible than the last escaped his lips and his arm crashed down again, hard.

He must have a broken rib or two, she thought.

"Listen to me," she said when the man finally came off the immediate pain. He squinted at her. "You are going to die. There is nothing I can do to stop it. You know this." The look he gave her confirmed her words. "But I can make your death swift so you do not suffer anymore than you already have."

For over a minute he watched her, thinking on her words. Then he nodded, a tear falling.

She hated tears.

The man presented no threat, so the woman didn't think about it twice as she scooted closer to him. Carefully, she lifted his head, resting the edge of it in her lap; she kept his gaze the entire time. She could see everything in his eyes—his attempts to overcome his fear, his mistrust but utter faith, his sadness. Unconsciously, she matched her breathing with his, the world sliding out of focus. It became too much. Not wanting to draw it out, she said, "Be at peace." His eyes widened for a split second before her sword found his throat. Jerking her arm back, she sliced an angry smile along the curve of his neck.

In seconds he was gone.

As she got up, she laid him down, brushed her hands off on her clothes (It wasn't like they could get any more disgusting) and wiped her blade on a relatively-clean patch of grass. She then re-sheathed it and rubbed her eyes with her palm before looking down to the Wolf, who had observed the whole thing without a word.

Now, it said, "A Queen of Old herself couldn't have done better."

The woman grimaced.

They continued on. Six times more they found soldiers near death, four of which were their own. The woman performed the same ritual for each, regardless of affiliation, ending their pain more quickly. By the end of it, she was tired and spent, but could not have the time alone she so desperately wanted.

The sun rose an hour later. As light rained down, and the fog dissipated, the true horror of the day before at last became visible. All across the field bodies were strewn, sometimes on top of each other, one person's blood mixing into another's. And it wasn't just people. Warriors of all species claimed equal ownership of the graveyard.

It took another half an hour to tally up the final count. In total, fifty-three of her soldiers had been killed. While this paled in comparison to the enemy, the number still had her swaying. So many friends dead. So many loved ones gone.

"There," the Wolf's voice caught her attention, just as she was about to slip into total mourning.

Pulling herself together, she managed to compose her face into the determined, strong expression she was known for, just as the scouts from the woods skidded to a halt at her feet. They were badly cut up and looked worse than—well, not death, but something close to it. All of them were accounted for, luckily, so she didn't fret on their state for long.

"Yes?" she asked, forcing her exhales to come out smoothly. "Are they gone?"

None of the scouts wanted to speak; they shifted uncomfortably before her, twisting their hands together behind their backs and shuffling their feet. They avoided her eyes, trembling. One made the mistake of looking up, and she caught his eye, freezing him on the spot. He coughed roughly and cleared his throat.

"Yes, we pushed them back. Far past the Waste."

It took everything she had to keep relief from her face. If they knew how worried she'd been, how certain she believed their defeat, she would lose morale—morale that had taken months, years to build up. Instead, she inspected them more closely, confused as to why none of them were celebrating. Normally they would all be leaping for joy, crowing their happiness.

"What are you not telling me?" she questioned.

"We, uh, found something," the same scout said, when none of the others would answer.

"Found something?"

"Yes."

"What is it?"

The scout shrank back. "We don't exactly know."

It took much prodding on the woman's part; whatever they had found had seriously spooked them, despite that they could not identify what the object even was. Her coaxing wore them down, though, and a scout near the back offered her the package. She took it with composed fingers.

It was long and thin, hidden within a white handkerchief. Through the fabric she could feel a cold material, hard and smooth. Tugging back a corner, she exposed the thing to the morning light. Rays reflected off its dazzling white surface, polished and shining. The object's end was carved into an elaborate design, a type of accuracy forgotten long before the woman had been born. She ran her fingers along the side and something in her skin prickled.

"What is it?" a scout whimpered aloud.

"Dark magic?" another asked.

"Is it cursed?" said a third.

"No," the woman whispered, awestruck. She continued stroking the thing, almost oblivious to those before her. "No, it's not any of that." She glanced at the Wolf, whose beady eyes had turned dark.

"Then what is it?" the first scout asked again.

She cast her eyes away from the object, noticing that they'd attracted more attention. The scouts weren't the only ones before her now; her remaining troops were crowded into a tight circle around her, suspicion and curiosity fixed on their battle worn faces. The woman stood up taller. Without warning, she brought the object to her lips and blew.

A loud noise erupted from the thing. The echoes went on forever, ringing through every nook and cranny they could find. Several of the soldiers covered their ears, and every single one of the scouts dove for the ground, hands over their heads.

When the ringing ended, the woman lowered the object and said in a breathless voice, "This, my fellow Narnians, is Queen Susan's horn."

* * *

**Author's Note: **

_Subject_: The Chronicles of Narnia

_Rating_: **PG-13** - violence, sensuality, suggestion (May change at a later date.)

_Couples_: Peter/OC

_Disclaimer_: I have only read the first two books/seen the three movies. This fic is **AU**. Everything except the story belongs to its respective owner(s).


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